


Intermission

by ladyofrosefire



Series: The Wind Will Have It's Way [2]
Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: I actually cried writing this, M/M, The Trice Locked Chest made me sad, it's also really short, sorry..., this one made me more sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1538132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire





	Intermission

It was late at night. The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.

The most obvious part was a patient, heavy quiet made by things that were lacking. If there had been a fire in the hearth, it would have popped, flickered, and crackled, changing the silence from something hollow, to something welcoming and secure. If there had been birdsong, maybe an owl or a nightjar to fill the cold, blue air with it's clear whistle or a mournful hoot, it would have chased the silence down the road on a chilly breeze. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.

Two men lay tucked together in a narrow cot. One had his eyes tightly closed, although he did not sleep. Despite the darkness, his red hair was still bright against the sooty cloth of his student's shirt. His hands rested on the upper part of the other's chest. His companion's eyes were open and fixed on the innkeeper's still form. He encircled him with his arms and bunched his fingers in the fabric under hands. Their legs were close but not quite intertwined, and the small space sent a hollow pang through the pair. Between them, they added a second silence that hovered in the cool air like an indrawn breath. It made a counterpoint of sorts, a subtle dissonance.

The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour, you might begin to feel it in the way the dark haired man clutched at the back of his teacher's shirt. It lay in the lines around the innkeeper's eyes, and in the way his palms did not quite touch the young man lying beside him. It was in the smell of smoke and burned meat that still clung to the dark haired man's clothes, and it was in the eyes of the man who's entire body shook as he comforted his student, his own mouth tight with pain.

The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he moved with the subtle certainty of one with nothing to lose or gain. He raised his hands to his student's face. There, in darkness so complete that the starlight fell to the floor in clear beams, he tipped his head up and pressed a single, perfect kiss to the forehead of the dark haired man.

The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, wrapping the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn's ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was the patient, cut-flower sound of a man who is waiting to die.


End file.
